The cicadas were deafeningly loud, the buzz seemingly amplified the already sweltering heat. You were sat outside, on the steps of your courtyard. Your bare legs stretched out in the sun, feeling the heat of its rays beat down onto your skin.
“Hey… come into the shade before you get sunburned idiot—“ muttered your husband, who was tending to the plants that lined against the back wall that circled your countryside home. A large tree draped over low, its lush green leaves shook and danced in the cool breeze. You got up and padded towards him, his back bare, tattoos shifting with each movement.
Sukuna unfolded to his full height and turned to you as you met him in the narrow patch of shade he'd carved out around himself. His gaze traveled over you-over the linen set rumpled from you messing around in the sunshine-and something in his expression tightened, not quite anger, not quite worry, but a clear decision.
He peeled his glove off and, without asking, tugged you close by your waistband. Your body bumped into his, the contact sudden enough to make you forget what you'd been about to say.
“It's sweltering hot,” he said, voice low and edged with impatience that was really just concern. “Yet you scramble around in the sun-“ “Well, yeah,” you said softly, your voice turning a little hazy with the truth of it. “It’s nice. I missed the summer heat.”
Sukuna’s eyebrow lifted, slow and unimpressed, like he was weighing you for the millionth time and still finding you strange—in the way he’d never admit out loud. “Always were such an odd woman,” he said, peeling the rest of his glove off. “Liking the heat this much.”
Before you could tease him back, his hands slid around your waist and he pulled you in close—then, with effortless strength, lifted you and carried you to the small bench beneath the shade.
The bench had been his idea from the start, built for you to sit pretty and comfortable, with a stack of books nearby and the garden within reach. He set you down carefully, like he wanted you to feel the thought in every inch of it, and the moment you were settled, he stepped back just enough to look at you properly.
“Stay out of the sun,” he said, firm again, but his tone had shifted—less grumbling, more protective. “If you insist on enjoying the heat, do it here, where I can see you.”
He huffed, the sound more irritated than he intended, and walked back to the pretty flowers he cultivated. Every step of his had that familiar rhythm—like he could be annoyed and still be exactly where he belonged, tending to the life you both kept together out here.
You crossed your legs and leaned back, letting your spine rest against the cool wall. The shade brushed over you in gentle patches, and you fanned yourself with slow, deliberate motions.
His back pocket started to ring—soft at first, then louder as the melody cut through the quiet hum of the garden. He huffed, annoyed that the world had the audacity to interrupt him, and pulled his phone out to check it.
He answered with a gruff mumble, one hand turning the screen a little while his other stayed at his side like he didn’t want to stop working. Then his jaw tightened. When he hung up, he stood back up—still in the shade, but suddenly all business again.
Your eyes tracked him without meaning to, watching the way his expression shifted as he stepped away. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath and stomped off into your home.
A moment later, he returned through the doorway and stopped in front of you. The heat was still there, but his presence made the shade feel smaller—closer—like he didn’t want anything to slip too far from his reach.
“That was Toji,” he said, voice rough. “The idiot needs me at the shop.” His gaze flicked over the flowers, the tools, then back to you—like he was already deciding what you’d need and what you’d pretend you didn’t. “Think you can handle finishing the gardening?”
You nodded, rising quickly to your feet “Of course!” you said, bright and eager. “How long will you be gone?”
“An hour at the most,” he replied, already moving on from the conversation like he didn’t like lingering in softness.
Before he stepped away, he tugged the green work apron off himself—work-worn and smelling faintly like garden soil—and placed it on you. The weight of it settled over your shoulders with a satisfying kind of warmth.
You smiled gleefully. “Thank you,” you said, and then—because you couldn’t help it—you waved as he headed back into the house.
When the door closed, the yard went quieter again. The breeze picked up through the low leaves, and the sunlight glittered just beyond the edge of the shade.
You turned to the rows of beautiful flowers and herbs—neat lines that only existed because you’d begged him to plant them the first time you learned to cook. You rolled up your sleeves, settled your focus, and got to work.
A few hours passed without him, the muggy air slowly cooling as the sun dipped low. Out beyond the garden, crickets started up their steady song, and the air grew gentle—less heavy, more kind.
You were halfway through digging, sleeves rolled and focus narrowed, when you decided the gloves were unnecessary and itchy. You peeled them off and went back to the soil with bare hands, letting the texture ground you. Somewhere in your throat, a soft tune kept humming—quiet, content, like you could make the whole day behave if you worked hard enough.
You grabbed a pair of scissors and started trimming and tugging at stubborn weeds. The task was meditative until—
A sharp sting laced through your palm.
You froze, the humming abruptly stumbling, and stared down like you couldn’t quite believe what you’d done. Blood welled up quickly, warm against your skin, pooling where it shouldn’t be. A breath caught in your chest. Tears stung at your eyes before you could swallow them back.
“Of course,” you whispered, voice trembling with frustration and hurt. “I’m such a—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. Your gaze flicked between the red in your hand and the innocent rows of flowers as if the garden had betrayed you. You sat back on your heels, clutching your palm with your other hand and blinking hard, trying to stop the tears from spilling while the sting throbbed in slow waves.
You rocked back and forth, trying to press the panic down with the steady rocking motion of your body. The tears finally slipped passed your lashes—hot and helpless. You sniffled into your sleeve, staring at your bloodied palm like it was the only thing that made sense in that moment.
The courtyard was silent except for the crickets… until the sound of the door opened.
Footsteps hit the ground with a heavy, familiar rhythm—large, unhurried only when he chose to be. Now they were all impatience. The door shut behind him with a sharp finality, and his voice carried straight into the air, grumbling angry complaints.
“That idiot Toji called me over—” you heard him snap, the words rumbling with irritation. “After nearly blowing up a client’s car at the shop—”
His pace slowed somewhere near you and the garden.
The moment you looked up, you could tell he’d come home ready to fight the whole world—until his gaze landed on you, on the tears, on your hand. His grumble died mid-sentence.
His frown shifted—fast. The anger fell away like it had never been there, replaced by worry sharp enough to cut through the crickets calming hum. His whole body tensed when he saw you sitting there, teary and unevenly breathing, and the sound of his anger finally broke into something else.
He rushed in, helping you up with more force than he probably meant to. His hands came to your shoulders, firm and urgent. For a second it felt like he could hold you together just by gripping you.
“Hey—“
“What happened?” he demanded, voice tight. “Let me see—”
He tugged gently at first, then more roughly—panic making him impatient with the world—and guided you closer so he could inspect your palm.
His gaze dropped to the cut and darkened with concern, his jaw going rigid as he took in the blood. He didn’t look away. He didn’t scold you, not yet.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time—quieter than the crickets, gentler than his earlier anger. One hand stayed steady at your shoulder while the other hovered in the air, uncertain, as if he was afraid a single wrong movement would make it hurt more.
He looked into your eyes, really looked—until you couldn’t look away either. His bloody-red irises caught the failing light, mirroring the dried patches of blood on your serrated palm. His expression tightened with worry,“Okay,” he murmured, voice rough. “Okay. I’m going to fix this.”
Slowly, carefully, he guided your hand toward him, bracing it so you wouldn’t have to hold it up alone. “Does it throb?” he asked, eyes flicking down to the cut. “Is it just bleeding, or does it feel deep?”
“It’s throbbing—” you said, between soft sniffles, trying to breathe through the sting. “And it’s bleeding a lot…”
He exhaled hard, like that admission finally turned his worry into action. His expression tightened again—this time with determination.
“C’mon,” he said, voice low and gruff.
He guided you inside and sat you down on the dining table with a careful firmness that didn’t give you room to argue. The house smelled faintly of evening cooking and old wood, and the kitchen light made everything look too bright for how close to tears you still were.
Then he moved, quick and steady, towards the kitchen, and grabbed the first-aid kit. Your eyes followed his broad back as he walked away, your chest still fluttering with fear and embarrassment and pain all tangled together. He wore a simple black t-shirt, shoulders tense, the shape of him steady even when his worry clearly wasn’t.
“Stay there,” he called without turning back. “Don’t move that hand—“
You waited, forcing yourself to stay still as the house settled around you. The dining table was cool beneath you, grounding in a way that felt almost unfair while your palm throbbed.
When he came back, his voice dropped to a whisper.
“Open.”
You slowly unfolded your bloodied palm, wincing as the sting flared up along your hand and into your forearm. He didn’t react like it was gross or inconvenient—he reacted like it mattered, because you did, and seeing you hurt in anyway made his heart ache. He would never tell you that of course, but you could tell by his actions.
He grabbed a wet paper towel and started to clean the blood away with careful, gentle pressure, like he was trying to take the pain away piece by piece without making it worse.
“How’d this happen?” he asked, pink locks a messy curtain around his face. His eyes stayed locked on your palm, steady and intent, but his voice carried that edge of alarm.
He paused just long enough to wipe away a final smear, then looked up at you for half a second. “Don’t stay quiet now—“ your cheeks were burning with utter embarrassment, “can’t leave you alone for a few hours can I?” He said with a sigh as he applied cool ointment to your skin and started wrapping it.
His hands were big. Calloused in all the ways that came from real work—and yet the moment they touched you, everything about him changed. He was gentle. Careful. Patient.
He adjusted the wrap with precision, as if your pain were delicate, as if you were made of something worth protecting.
And it did something to you—something inconvenient and sweet. Your heart throbbed and jumped at every small motion, the way he steadied your wrist, the way he pressed just enough to keep the bandage in place, the way his attention never wavered from what mattered.
You couldn’t help it. You felt it, deep and undeniable.
Something as simple as his touch made you fall a fraction deeper in love with your husband.
He finished up with the last careful adjustment, then pulled back just enough to look at you fully—like he needed to confirm you were okay. “You aren’t going near anything sharp,” he said, voice firm, eyes staring deep into yours. “Got that?”
You nodded quickly, too quick, like speed could make him less worried. The bandage sat against your palm, warm where his hands had just been.
He huffed, turning his head as if to go back to being annoyed—until, You grabbed him by his collar and tugged him in.
A quick kiss. Right there, in the kitchen light, soft but decisive, stealing the words out of his mouth. When you pulled back, his expression had gone a little stunned, ears warming, the worry in his face flaring into something gentler.
“—Hey,” he muttered, like he was trying to remember how to talk while your mouth was still lingering near his.
You giggled softly, cheeks warm as embarrassment collided with affection. “Thank you,” you whispered, and pressed your lips to his again, quick at first, then firmer when you felt how tense he was trying not to show how affected he was.
His arms tightened around your waist. Not gently, protective, yes, but with an edge to it. Like he needed you close because you made him weak and he hated that you knew it.
“Mmph—mm,” he grunted against your mouth, the noise sounded annoyed yet pleased at the same time.
“Don’t get cute,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes dark with that deep devotion. “You cut yourself. You stay away from the garden and my garden scissors, or your doing my chores plus yours and you’ll thank me whether you want to or not.”
Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he kissed you again—longer this time. His hands braced you as if you were something he could lose at any moment. You pulled away, quietly admiring his face,
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and mean in the way that was really just love wrapped in fanged teeth. “Yeah… that’s right. Keep quiet and kiss me.”
“I love you-“ you whispered, a small smile plastered on your face.
“…I love you too-“ he muttered back, voice laced with utter devotion.
A/N: have this quick write while I try to get the next chapter for my nightwing fic down, which btw it still needs a name… and I lowkirkgenuinely suck at writing for Sukuna but fuck it we ball- also thank you so so much @epicderpface for the idea!! Ur literally a life saver 🛟
Tags 🏷️: @raven66551 @lilithkleia
